


in the smallest space of silence that stretches between us

by TheKitteh



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune, Scott is a Good Friend, Slow Build, Wolf!Derek, physical injury, post 3b
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:51:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKitteh/pseuds/TheKitteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they banish the nogitsune from Stiles' body, everyone copes with what has happened in their own way.</p><p>And if Stiles' methods of coping includes coming over to Derek's place time and time again?<br/>Well, Derek is surprisingly okay with it. </p><p>He owes Stiles this much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set after the events of 3B and completely ignores the events of season 4. 
> 
> Also completely ignores the re-appearance of Kate Argent, because my mind doesn't comprehend that much of bullshit and is unable to process it without exploding. 
> 
> Allison is still dead, sadly.
> 
> Tags will be added as the story progresses.

After everything that happens, Derek somehow manages to settle into the quiet of his loft. The few days after the dust settled were hectic, fast paced and grief laden; still, in the evenings Derek feels his chest tighten unpleasantly, as he remembers Allison’s funeral. It was small and private, a sad little event Derek didn’t dare attend to officially; instead he looked from afar, hearing every word spoken and every choked sob. It was dark already when he stepped up, along in the quiet cemetery to place a single flower on her grave. Her name nothing more than a neat row of gold letters set in marble.

He and Allison were tentative allies at best, not trusting each other completely, but she was  a vibrant, strong young woman and despite every single one of their differences, Derek truly mourned a life that has been ended so abruptly, way before its prime.

He tries his best not to remember the devastated look on Scott’s face or the crushing guilt in Stiles’ eyes. Hopes against all hope the two will manage to heal and forgive themselves; even if there isn’t anything to forgive for.

He doesn’t seek out any of the teens for a while. Time is what they all need, even him, with dreams once again filled with Kate’s poison-sweet words, soft curls and razor sharp smiles, so he grits his teeth and ignores the ghosts lurking in every corner of the loft and endures. Spends his days with books he buys by the dozen, immerses himself in stories ambitious and cheap, but always about a life that would never be his. Cleans the loft that’s more space than furniture, goes for runs, tries to eat healthy and reads, reads, reads. Ignores the turning world outside his window.

He doesn’t seek out Peter either, not entirely sure about the game his uncle’s playing. Not entirely sure he even _cares._

It’s two weeks after Allison’s funeral and Derek had settled into a routine that’s in equal parts boring and comforting. Cleans the loft that’s more space than furniture, goes for runs, tries to eat healthy and reads, reads, reads. Ignores the turning world outside his window. His days are painfully bland in a way he never thought he’d enjoy, but after everything that has occurred ever since he came back from New York, bland is just fine with him.

Of course, that’s when the disruption comes and Derek shouldn’t even be surprised it’s Stiles who brings it. On some plane, he isn’t.

He is surprised, however, by the fact that it’s almost midnight on a school night when Stiles slinks through the door. The kid is literally thrumming with a sick kind of energy, strong enough that Derek can feel it lodge itself in his throat. He takes a shallow breath, careful not to choke on the stench of anxiety surrounding Stiles and only raises his brows in a questioning manner, not moving from his place on the ratty couch. Stiles sighs heavily, runs a hand through the crow’s nest that he calls hair and promptly slumps next to Derek.

His shoulders are tense, long fingers restless as they pick and pull at the frayed rim of the shirt Stiles’ wearing. He makes Derek’s own fingers itch with the need to press onto his shoulders, ground him, make him sit still.

He doesn’t though, only looks at Stiles and waits for any kind of explanation.

“Can I stay here for a while?” Stiles asks after a long, quiet moment and his voice is all kinds of wrong.

Derek’s first instinct is to ask _why,_ _what’s wrong_ or about his father’s whereabouts; even _why aren’t you at Scott’s_ seems like the logical choice. It’s not exactly his place to do so, though, so he clamps down the urge, picks up his book for the day and settles in.

“You’re here already.” He says, eyes back on the fine print as he thumbs through the pages to find the one he was on.

Next to him, Stiles somehow sinks further into the couch, some of the tension seeping out of him and leaving him in a long, heavy breath.

Ironically, at fist Derek feels stupidly hurt, because what, did Stiles really expect to be thrown out? Didn’t he know better by now….?

But the flash of hurt is gone as soon as it came, Derek swallows all the questions he might have and they sit there in the silence. Stiles is unexpectedly still, quiet in a sick way that makes Derek’s skin crawl. It’s almost like his limbs are tightly tied together, like there is _something_ holding him down and it’s all wrong. Because Stiles just sits there, folded in on himself and staring at the wall, eyes dark and the beat of his heart steady, heavy in a way it never was before.

Time passes slowly, measured only by slow heartbeats and the sound of turning pages, and Derek still doesn’t check the hour when Stiles heaves himself up as suddenly as he appeared. His balance is thrown for a moment, as if his own legs forgot how to carry his weight, but then he shakes his head, stands up a little bit straighter as he looks down at Derek.

For a split of a second, Stiles looks like he’s about to say something, even opens his mouth a little bit. In the end he doesn’t say anything, just gives Derek a long, haunted look and turns to the door.

Derek looks after him – that annoying kid with his skin pulled too tight – watches Stiles slither through the door as if he were leaving a dirty, little secret behind and disappearing into the late hours of the night.  Wonders what does it mean that aside from that very first question, Stiles didn’t utter a word throughout the whole of his unexpected, strange visit.

Wonders what does it mean that somehow, he didn’t mind sharing the uncomfortable silence at all.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s already late in the evening of the day Isaac left, when Stiles comes around for the second time. It’s been a long day - they’ve all watched Isaac and Chris leave for the airport, they’ve all said “come back soon” and yet, it felt like a definite _goodbye_ as Derek watched his last true beta walk away with the seasoned hunter.

Derek has been in a strange, bittersweet mood ever since he came home.

He’s in the middle of unpacking one of the few boxes he finally had brought in from New York, skimming through the remains of a life long gone when the door slides open and Stiles’ slightly neurotic scent wafts through the air. Before he has the chance to blink, the door slides and Stiles sneaks in, stops dead in his tracks when he notices Derek among photo frames and books. He hesitates, the uncertainty thick and heavy around him. And Derek really should question what the hell is Stiles doing here, when he has a best friend who’d die for him and a real home. Why does Stiles come around to this rundown excuse of a loft Derek went and claimed as his home.

Instead, he just nods in a silent greeting and points to the lone armchair, before turning all of his attention back to the task at hand.

He doesn’t offer any small talk and knows Stiles doesn’t expect him to, anyway.

Still, Derek pretends he doesn’t hear the tiny, quick exhale of relief and the squeak of old springs; focuses on the feel of Laura’s old school book in his hand (he wonders, briefly, if the smell of her hands is still there, buried between ink and paper, hidden underneath the stench of New York and dust). He misses his sister somewhat fierce and his hands threaten to shake as he carefully puts them away. He doubts he’ll ever forget the feeling of burying half of her body, choking on tears and the thick, clogging smell of blood.

Derek forces himself to stop reliving that damned night and shakes himself like a wet dog, casts a look over his shoulder to the chair where Stiles is sitting quietly. The teen holds himself still, his phone is in his hands, but the screen is dark; there’s no fiddling with the newest app Stiles downloaded or googling for answers to whatever bizarre question that happened to pop into his mind. There’s just a slow, constant glide of one thumb over the smooth surface. Stiles’ eyes are clouded and distant, and the shadows underneath seem to be getting darker and darker with each passing minute.

He also seems oblivious to the look Derek gives him; oblivious or ignorant (sometimes Derek’s certain there isn’t that much difference between the two). Stiles just keeps his gaze locked on the dirtsmudged windows, lost in his own thoughts and so, _so_ silent.

Derek’s not used to _this_ Stiles. This Stiles is everything opposite of what Derek came to associate with the teen; Stiles’ supposed to be loud and annoying and so goddamn _vibrant_ in all of his pain in the ass ways. This silent Stiles is unnerving, the way he holds himself – coiled tight and painful – is sickening. This Stiles needs to be reminded of that wonderfully human spark he had, the one that kept him going on and on when anyone else would crash and burn.

But it’s not Derek’s place to step up and shake the boy or offer comfort.             

Because they’ve never been _friends_ ; they’ve never formed the kind of solid bonds like the rest of them did. They didn’t do pointless talk, they didn’t exchange texts or call each other - they only collided time and time again. Stiles would get all in his face, jutting chin and blazing eyes and Derek would snap back, lips curled and teeth bared in a semi-snarl. They’d keep pushing and pulling at each other and be _there_ when it counted. Stiles kept him alive more often than not and Derek did try to do everything he could to help when the nogitsune took over Stiles’ mind, but still…

But looking at the boy now, there isn’t much Derek could say.

Because he knows firsthand how does it feel to have shoulders weighted down by bones and ghosts, how does it feel to look in the mirror and see ashen skin and bloodied hands. He remembers all too well how his own back strained under the weight of all the death he caused.

He knows how it is to live with a ghost that’s always there in the corner of your mind.

Maybe that’s the reason Derek doesn’t even consider telling Stiles to leave, to go and find a better place – Scott’s worn out, comfortable bed or Lydia’s friendly embrace. Maybe it’s because he can still feel the phantom, hesitant touch of Stiles’ hand on his shoulder as Boyd’s body slipped from his claws onto the flooded floor (he never thanked him, never said what it meant for him).

The night ends like the last time, with Stiles getting up suddenly and walking to the door. Derek doesn’t expect the boy to say anything, so he just looks when Stiles moves, as he straightenes his shoulders a little bit when he’s about to slide the door open.

But the teen never did what Derek expected of him anyway and so he turns, eyes wide and dark. “Goodnight,” he says in a rough voice, like he hasn’t been talking for a while that was much longer than the one he spent in Derek’s loft. He’s gone before Derek is finished blinking, before he can even think of forming a reply.

The silence that falls after the lock clicks softly into place – after Stiles’ heartbeat fades into the dark of the night – is heavy, uncomfortable in a completely new way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am a big fan of Derek/Scott friendship.
> 
> (I'm actually a fan of Derek having honest to God, different relationships with all kinds of people which don't end in him getting tortured or laid)

Derek’s helping Scott with his bike almost two weeks later and Scott gives him the most ridiculous, half astounded half pained look ever, when Derek asks out of the blue whether Stiles has been sleeping enough lately. He blurts it out when his fingers are slipping on bolts and screws, knuckles slick with oil, but his mind has been trying to come up with any valid reason why Stiles stubbornly continues to crash at his place for days now. Stiles has come around almost every second day, always quiet and subdued, and it didn’t take Derek longer than two more of those visits to figure out he always comes when his father takes the graveyard shift.

It’s the _why_ he isn’t completely sure of and if anyone has any inkling about how Stiles’ mind works, it has to be his best friend.

“You actually _talked_ with Stiles about it?” Scott asks after a moment of surprised silence, his mouth falling into a flat, unhappy line. It’s not a good look on him, that ugly something that lands between worry and tormented.

“No. No I didn’t.” And it’s true, because while Stiles _did_ come around uninvited (but unsurprisingly never unwelcomed), they barely exchanged any words that were more than _hey_ and _goodnight._

And yes, Derek likes to upkeep his image of a extraordinarily poor conversationalist (it keeps unwanted attention away from him like magic), but truth be told, he’s still not sure what he could say to the boy anyway. _It was not your fault_ seems like such a empty, worn out phrase that Derek literally cringes at the mere thought of wiping his mouth with it. Stiles deserves something more that a cheap cliché, that much Derek knows.

“I thought that… I know he’s been over at your place, and I just …” Scott trails off, lets out a frustrated huff before picking up again. “I’m just so worried about him. He doesn’t, well, share much, exactly. Not with me, not with Lydia. I thought, with your scent all over him, that maybe you managed to, when we couldn’t.”

There’s a hint of anger in the scent of the young Alpha, one that makes Derek crinkle his nose. It’s not an emotion he’s used to sensing around Scott and it feels so, so wrong, for all the possible reasons, even if Derek knows that the anger isn’t directed at Stiles.

No, Scott would _never_ blame Stiles, Derek knows that as well as he knows how to breathe. That dull anger’s directed at Scott’s own inability to reach through the haze Stiles has burrowed himself in, at his inability to help his best friend deal with the aftermath of everything that has happened.

Derek shifts on his knees uncomfortably, feels the gravel from the road dig into the caps painfully through his jeans, not exactly sure why Scott thinks he would be the one Stiles should choose to talk about his demonic possession and the tragedy that followed.

Why did Stiles all of the sudden decided to keep crashing at his place is a whole other can of worms, one Derek isn’t too keen to open anytime soon.

(Nor think about how much Stiles literally reeks of Derek’s place.)

“Give him time.” He says instead and the words sound as lame and pathetic out loud, as they did in his head.

“I know, I know. Just … it’s _Stiles_. ” Just a statement, just like that, as if barely the nickname explains everything.

It does.

After another silent while, when Derek busies himself with the breaks, Scott runs a hand through his messy hair and takes a deep breath. He looks like he’s mentally preparing for a fight, Derek thinks with some kind of wicked, soft pride, with eyes suddenly sharp and gazing somewhere into the distance, clever and shoulders squared. He looks every bit the Alpha he will grow into in the coming years and one he looks forward to help along the way.

That is, until Scott looks back at him with a twisted little smile and Derek just _knows_ he won’t like anything that Scott is currently thinking about. It’s a smile that’s just the tiniest bit crooked, maybe edging on mean and the last time some smiled at him like that, he and Laura ended buck naked deep in the middle of Central Park.

“What?” He asks gruffly, maybe just the slightest bit on the defensive, because that’s what Scott expects of him and internally he braces himself.

“Look, I know you and Stiles are… well, I get it you’re not exactly best friends or anything like that. But as I said, I know he’s hanging around you and you’re my best shot here, man…”

“Just get to the point, Scott.” Derek sighs heavily, because he’s not stupid or naïve enough to play pretend and besides, he’ll say _yes_ anyway.

Owes both of the boys that much.

Scott’s voice turns quiet, private – one of a concerned friend, not of an Alpha of their little rag tag pack - when he says, “Just please don’t make him go away,” like that’s just such a casual think to say. Derek snaps his head up, winces when his fingers catch painfully on the sharp edged metal and just stares up at the boy he came to consider his little brother for reasons first wrong and then good.

But before Derek has a chance to reply, Scott’s barreling on like if he gives Derek enough time, he’ll laugh and say _no_ and all will be for naught.

“I mean, he just goes day by day, you know, not wanting to talk about it or do anything? Like maybe if he doesn’t acknowledge it, what happened to him, then all of the .. other things,” _Allison_ , Derek hears in the sudden hitch in Scott’s voice, sees the way his eyes darken, “ Didn’t happen as well. And it’s not like we can _force_ him to talk, right? I mean, we can’t really demand anything of him right now.”

Not when Stiles has had his choices and free will taken away from him once already.

Derek sighs heavily – because he’s really, _really_ the last person Scott should trust Stiles with like this – and wipes his hands clean on a wet cloth, before reaching out and squeezing Scott’s shoulder with sympathy.

“He’ll get better. And we both know he’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

“I know that, man.” Scott huffs and it sounds both fond and impatient at the same time. “But if I can’t be there for him now for whatever reasons he thinks are legit, I want to know there’s someone out there looking out for him.”

And that’s it, really. It’s the least Derek can do. Offer a watchful eye and a silent space for Stiles to occupy when he deems he needs it. And so he just sighs, nods his agreement and watches Scott’s shoulders sag in relief. They finish tuning up the bike in comfortable silence and Scott bids him goodbye with a one-armed hug. 

When Stiles comes around that day, surprisingly early in the evening all things considered, he reeks of exhaustion and to Derek’s ultimate surprise, he falls into a restless sleep in the chair not long after, curled into an awkward, uncomfortable ball of long limbs. Derek watches him for a longer  moment, observes the quick rise and fall of his chest – Stiles is so twitchy when he sleeps, little ticks that jerk through the whole of his body, eyes moving rapidly even behind closed lids – and somehow, for some reason, he _aches._

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Stiles finally talks and Derek realizes a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this got longer than I expected.

It’s almost two months after Allison’s funeral,  which became another mark in the flow of time for Derek, when Stiles actually _talks_ to him for the first time. Scott has been keeping him in the loop about Stiles’ well being, or rather the absolute lack of progress. By then Stiles has been around twenty seven times and always, always _so_ damn quiet. It’s already dark outside on dreary night  as Derek steps out fresh from the shower, drying his hair with a towel and is all ready to turn in for the night, when he spots Stiles standing at the foot of his bed with a thoughtful, hesitantly curious expression on his face.

It probably says something about the whole situation and how his scent is ingrained into the quiet of Derek’s loft that Derek didn’t even notice Stiles come round this time. It also confirms Derek’s not so shy suspicions that Stiles somehow managed to get a hold of his key and make himself a copy.

“How the hell do you even sleep at night?” Stiles asks, voice surprisingly bitter and his eyes focused on the messy sheets.

The question hits Derek like a goddamn sledgehammer and his first instinct is to bare his fangs and throw the kid away by the scruff of his neck, because _how dares he_. How dares he come into Derek’s house and home and question the wolf like that.

He gets the sudden anger under control in a blink of an eye, clamps the snarl down as Stiles continues like his words didn’t manage to rattle Derek’s life-long hold on the wolf’s muzzle. “I mean, with the huge wall of glass and everything,” his hand makes this gesture that is barely an echo of the one he’ be making just a couple of months ago, but still counts in Derek’s mind. “How can you sleep man, with all the light and all? I’d piss myself awake with the knowledge anyone could see me.”

Derek sighs heavily as he hangs the towel on the railing of the stairwell, his moves slow and languid as he moves around, even if he keeps Stiles in the peripheral of his vision.  Stiles just keeps standing there, looking thoughtfully at _his bed_ of all things and doesn’t even flinch when Derek sits down heavily, knocking their legs together in the process.

“You get used to it.” Derek answers when the silence becomes a little too long, watches Stiles reaction but his face remains carefully blank.

It says something ugly about everything that has happened in the last year that Stiles has learned to school his features into a neat, emotionless mask well enough to fool almost everyone.

Stiles’ hands tell, however, a completely different story.

His hands keep working at his sides, long fingers clenching and unclenching; it comes to the point where Derek swears he can _hear_ the skin slide over boney knuckles. It makes the tips of his own fingers itch with the need to do something (or to grab or hold or _soothe_ ).

“Look, Stiles…” Derek says, or starts saying at least, because the moment the words leave his mouth, Stiles flinches violently as if slapped and turns to Derek. That bland mask cracks away in a blink of an eye and there’s just this terrified, angry kid standing in front of a werewolf.

His eyes are bloodshot, but bright and Derek feels some kind of twisted satisfaction to see them alit with something else than despair.

“ _Don’t._ ” Stiles hisses down at him, angry and betrayed, as if Derek broke some sort of unsaid pact between the two of them.

It’s refreshing, really, the thick scent of anger rolling off in waves from the lithe, human body; exciting to literally taste an emotion different than stale grief that’s been curled around his shoulders for too long. And anger was always a good look on Stiles, bringing a flush to his skin and a fire to his eyes, causing him to jut his chin and stand just a little bit straighter.

It makes Derek want to push the teen’s buttons more, to poke and prod at festering wounds that are not his to heal (but still his to witness as they bleed and rot).

“Just sit the hell down.” Derek says instead, even if he keeps his voice hard and cool, because _he promised Scott_ and he wants to be able to keep his promises this time.

He can actually feel Stiles _freeze_ next to him, there’s no other way to describe it. His breath is cut short, his hands stop their restless motion, whole body going rigid and when Derek looks up, he sees that Stiles isn’t even blinking. He’s giving Derek the most accurate human equivalent of the whole _deer in the headlights_ look and Derek doesn’t even try to hold in the snort at the sight.

And apparently that’s all he needed to do to make Stiles sit down; he literally folds himself down next to Derek as if his knees suddenly gave up under his scrawny weight. He sucks in wet breath, chokes on air as if on a sob and his fingers clench on Derek’s sheets. Stiles’ shaking so bad that their knees keep brushing every now and then – like he’s about to burst in seams, skin tight with all pent up energy and sizzling nerves.

“I…” Stiles begins, his voice hoarse and cracking, eyes ridiculously huge and wet. Makes Derek think of a wet pup that needs a shelter.

“Don’t.” Derek throws back the phrase at him, only a little bit softer this time, and doesn’t allow him to continue whatever Stiles was about to say.

Instead, he bumps their shoulders together, because touch, touch was always more of Derek’s forte than words and it was what worked between them best anyway (be it fist in a shirt, arms around a paralyzed body or a shaking hand on a hunched shoulder). Stiles huffs out a sound that could possibly pass for a laugh one day, presses into Derek’s side for a second before straightening his back just a little bit. His fingers begin to work constantly once more, tangling and untangling over and over again as Stiles straightens up a little bit.

Derek waits.

“I know you talk with Scott.” Stiles says finally, with the kind of determination that Derek’s gotten used to when it came to the teen.

Derek nods, because there is no reason not to admit the truth – Scott’s been the one to always reach out, to check up on Derek’s well being or not so subtly ask about Stiles and his habit of coming around unannounced. Sometimes Derek regrets ever giving his number to the teen, but Scott’s all good intentions and a big heart and more often than not, Derek feels stupidly proud of the boy and lets himself be bugged and talked into all kinds of things regarding Stiles.

“I know he’s… he’s worried,“ Stiles swallows loudly, as if saying that out loud causes him physical pain – maybe it does, maybe he twists it all around in his mind ( _like his-but-not-really-his hand twisted the sword_ ), think he’s failing his best friend, “And if Scott’s been pressuring you, or going all true Alpha on you or something, I’ll…”

“No,” Derek cuts him off tersely, before shifting his weight a little bit, unsure of how to continue. Stiles isn’t even looking at him anymore, messy head bowed and eyes half-lidded, hidden from a prying wolfish gaze. “Scott couldn’t pressure me if he tried.”

It earns him a snort, even if a humorless one, but Derek still chalks that up as a success. After weeks of dark silence, this stilted conversation is as surprising as it is refreshing. When few minutes pass and Stiles doesn’t say anything, just takes deep, deep breaths, Derek adds, “You have to know that I’m not going to ask you.”

Stiles startles, looks up with eyes suddenly wide with unbridled panic, croaks  “What?”

Sighing heavily, Derek rubs one hand over his face. Jesus Christ, he’s really not the best to handle all of this.

“I’m not going to ask you anything.” He says again, feeling tired and old, but there is no doubt he’ll let Stiles remain in the loft as long as the kid needs it. “Whether about if you want to talk, or how you’re _not_ dealing, or the reasons why you keep coming here or whatever shit that’s going on with you.”

“…why?” Stiles asks, his voice small but eyes stupidly large on his pale face.

Derek _definitely_ isn’t cut to deal with this. He sighs again, looks at the teen next to him. Remembers Laura’s sad, red eyes when she sat him down countless of times, asked all questions – all of them beginning with _why –and demanded answers_ and how he snarled at her, fought her claw and fang just so she would _leave him the fuck alone._

Perhaps it all shows somehow, comes through that one long look, because the next thing he knows is Stiles hiding his face in the round curve of Derek’s shoulder; pressing closer and breathing in heavily as he tries desperately to get a grip on himself.

“I can’t,” he blurts into the slightly damp fabric of Derek’s shirt, “I want to, but _I can’t_. My dad and Scott, and Lydia. They just… I can’t tell them and look at them and see…” He stops talking as his voice cracks, just makes a small, pained noise in the back of his throat.

Derek  nods, the tips of Stiles’ hair brushing against his cheek as he does so, because he knows what it is that Stiles can’t say. It took painful,  long months before he could look Laura in the eye and not choke with fear that he’ll see pity or disappointment or something _worse_ , that he’ll see her come to realize that he was the true reason their family was dead.

Stiles’ breathing is quick and shallow, his face still pressed into Derek’s shoulder as he takes in gulps of air. His scent is tinged with salt now and Derek wants to shift again – uncomfortably, he’ll admit -  but it’s _Stiles_ so he just clenches his teeth, and waits.

It doesn’t take long though, for Stiles to sniffle two or three times (and Derek will never admit how those little sounds cut him to the bone) and he moves away, but still remains close enough for their knees to brush. Seems to draw comfort from that small point of contact.

Derek isn’t going to touch that with a ten foot pole.

“You should tell Scott that.” He says quietly after a while, fighting the urge to rub one hand all over his face. He’s tired all of the sudden, Stiles emotions are for once flying all over the place and rolling off of Derek in return. “That you can’t.”

Stiles shakes his head furiously, his fingers working once again – restlessly – over his jeans, “He’ll ask.”

“No, he won’t.” The look Stiles gives him is incredulous, at best and Derek sighs, twists his body just a little so it’s more open to the teen. “You know him, Stiles, you know he’ll give you everything you need.”

It causes Stiles to deflate a little, “Yeah.” He sighs after a while, carefully keeps his body aligned with Derek’s – as if trying to suck up all the extra warmth Derek’s giving off – but avoids looking at the werewolf all the same. “I… I can’t take it when his face changes when he looks at me. Scotty’s poker face really sucks man, and I just… I _can’t_.”

Derek hears what Stiles really doesn’t want to say; it’s not only Scott’s face he can’t see to change with pity, with pain and loss. There’s also his father who had to believe his child was dying, who had to witness his son possessed and made a tool. There’s Lydia who screamed her throat raw with her best friend’s name as she bled out on a cold ground.

They’re the people Stiles needs like breathing and is unable to turn to.

Instead he spends his time here, fills the empty spaces with his silence and his scent, wastes his evening away with Derek, with someone who is unfit the most to try and help him at all.

At least that’s what Derek thinks till now, up until Stiles gets up and prepares to leave. He lingers in the near vicinity, shuffles his feet a few times and it lasts long enough for Derek to look up at him and raise his brows  in a questioning manner.  Stiles takes deep breath, runs a hand through his hair and then awkwardly touches Derek’s shoulder.

It's familiar in its unfamiliarity and the first thing in years to make Derek's breath hitch a little.

“Thanks man,” Stiles says, kind of breathless and embarrassed, his fingers lingering over the sharp slope of the bone. “You’re a good wolf to come to.”

And when the door closes behind him a minute later, Derek thinks there is something he can actually do now. That there's a way he can help.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where good intentions aren't always enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas everyone!

The back of his neck itches almost constantly now, five little points of pain that flare up every single time Derek thinks of his mother. Whatever words were shared between them are a little lost to him now, but what she really meant to tell him is forever etched into the back of his mind. It’s okay. He doesn’t have to remember the hushed, soft growls and gentle words that echoed back and forth between them in a plane made of dreams and horrors to understand just how much his mother showed him, taught him even from beyond the grave.

The first time Derek tries to put this knowledge to use, all of the bones in his body shudder and lengthen; he ends up writhing on the ground in the preserve, fangs _shredding_ his lip as his body breaks and mends itself over and over. Excruciating pain erupts from the deep within the marrow, violates every sense, dulls the passage of time and blurs the whole of the outside world.

Derek comes to when the sky is grey and constantly darkening, his hands shaking and legs unstable like a calf’s for the first time since he learned to walk properly. He drags himself back to the loft, shirt drenched with sweat and blood and only hopes he didn’t howl; doesn’t feel like exposing and explaining himself to Scott just yet. His skin feels too tight, as if stretched thin over every bone and set aflame and Derek spends over an hour in the shower, with ice cold water pounding over his back.

The feeling of his body slowly rearranging itself accompanies Derek for days, makes him jittery and snappy. He’s a breath short of rude to Kira when he meets her at the convenience store, he ignores Scott’s phone calls for a week and he can’t help but snap at everyone who as much as looks at him.

He grits his teeth however, grinds them hard enough for his jaws to  ache, tries to act like nothing’s different when Stiles is around. But Stiles is nothing if perceptive and even if he doesn’t say anything, he seems to fidget around more. He doesn’t look at Derek, instead keeps his eyes down, hunches his shoulders in (he tries to make himself smaller, make himself seem not a threat and it would make Derek feel sick on any other day if he wasn’t so focused on the way his body shifts all the time) every time he comes around. Stiles shies away more and Derek doesn’t pay attention, too focused on the scratch of claws in the back of his mind, too busy listening to the growls of a wolf long gone and ignoring the grinding of bones.

By the time second week has passed, Derek ends up punching a hole through the wall – he’s sure Stiles would find that hilarious –after Stiles leaves one night, shakes the remains of plaster off of his bloodied knuckles and then runs through the preserve till his legs shake and lungs burn with the lack of oxygen. He tries and tries again, always late in the night, when the world is fast asleep and no one can hear the crack of bone and the tear of flesh (he rips his mouth apart every time, trying to stop the howls). Each time he barely makes it back to the loft, body rearranged yet again and forever aching, collapses on the bed and sleeps till noon.  

When the whispers of his mother’s voice In his mind  finally fall silent, it’s almost a whole month since Derek started his attempts. It’s a quiet, calm Tuesday evening and Derek feels _right_ for the first time since what honestly seems like forever. There’s a soft, steady thrum of something wonderful in his veins, something that makes him stand a little straighter, hold his head a little higher. Stiles should come around any time now – he’s been at the loft just a few times this month – because his dad is on the graveyard shift tonight and it’s the been three months now since Allison’s funeral. Stiles’ always looks ready to fly apart at the seams on those grim monthly anniversaries and Derek finds himself waiting for the boy impatiently for the probably what is the very first time since he started coming over.

_You’re a good wolf to come to._

He always liked doing something with his hands or body, always liked being able to help someone and right now he’s convinced he actually can do both. He thinks he can go as far as to say he’s actually excited to have Stiles over tonight.

Except that Stiles doesn’t show up.

When the late evening turns into late night, Derek is unable to think _in just a few minutes_ anymore and has to acknowledge that the teen isn’t going to come around this time. He tells himself he’s not disappointed, that it’s good to have one whole night  for himself. That it’s good that Stiles is feeling well enough to brave being left at home all on his own, as it has to be a sure sign of slowly recovering.

He tells himself that the sudden cold ball that he feels coiled tight in his stomach is nothing at all. Still, Derek paces around the loft for what seems like hours, unease making his skin itch, make him feel too big for his human body with the way every instinct is telling him to _run_ for something. He tries to remember how often Stiles came around this past month – every other night during the first week, then what? Once? Twice? – but he’s unable to come up with an exact number.

At the stroke of midnight, Derek goes for a run. Starts off human, just to stretch his legs and to clear his mind – to lose the sickly feeling of _not right_ –, enraptured with the crinkling of dead leaves underneath his feet and the night’s air cool over his face. But the persistent  scratch-scratch-scratch of claws becomes louder, the urge to truly _run_ grows with every meter and Derek gives into it eventually. He hides his clothes and shoes in a hollow tree trunk  and lets the wolf roam free.

Large paws crush leaves as well as booted feet but his body is quicker, swift like the half-shifted human one could never be. The world comes into hyper-focus, all the scents in the woods tickling his nose and making him want to chase every single one of them. He picks a stale if a familiar one (still, the scent is tinged with salt, of all things) and he follows it without any thought. It wounds around trees and over crevices in the ground, gets stronger as it leads towards the edge of the woods. Beacon Hills splays out beneath the Preserve, all street lights and a few lone cars underneath a starry sky. The night is gorgeous, with a half-moon high in the sky and not one cloud in sight and Derek is filled with a sudden sense of calm as he sits down, breathes in deeply.

It’s been a while since he felt so centered in the world.

The scent wafts by his nose, making it twitch lightly with its familiarity and that salty quality makes him curious. He knows he smelt it before, had to, because it makes him want to run and chase it down to the source, to find out where it goes and who it belongs to. It leads down the slope, into the town and Derek’s certain he could easily blend in the shadows of the buildings to follow it unnoticed.

Fifteen minutes later find him slinking between buildings, a light bounce in his trot that he would never admit to in his human form. Derek knows he’s big, bigger than an average wolf not to even mention a dog, so he makes himself sure it’s safe to move between crossing streets or jumping over bushes. He ignores the frantic bark of dogs, the absolute panic in the hisses of wild cats as they scatter in front of him.

Comes to a stop in front of a familiar house and swears up and down, that if it were possible, he’d be rubbing a hand over his face right now. Because of course, _of course_ , the scent he had to go and pick up from millions of others would be the one to lead him to the Stilinski’s house. Derek huffs in exasperation, finds himself a well hidden spot across the street and sits down for a moment. The cruiser isn’t there, like expected, but the kitchen light is on meaning Stiles is not asleep yet. Midnight snack, maybe?

Derek stretches, feels a satisfying crick between his shoulder blades and gets up to leave, when out of habit he listens for the quick beat of Stiles’ heart (neither Stiles or Scott knows how often Derek used to do that after Boyd’s death, rounds around the town, checking up on them all the least he could do). It’s there, like he suspected, in the kitchen, fluttery and quick and with a sigh Derek gets up to leave.

And stops only after a few steps, his ears picking up a sound that he’s fairly certain he shouldn’t have heard and he waits.

And hears it again.

Stiles’ breathing is fast, _too fast_ ; quick, rapid gasps that in no way can support him with oxygen. They hitch every now and then, sound desperate and wet. Now that Derek has heard it once, he listens in more carefully – and Stiles’ heartbeat is too fast as well. Almost Iike his heart is trying to hammer its way through his chest, fast and skipping and in a blink of an eye,  Derek realizes what’s happening.

Stiles is alone and in a middle of a full-blown panic attack.

A small, distressed whine escapes him, his paws digging into the soft ground a few times as he thinks what to do. It’s impossible for Derek to shift here, because the last thing he needs right now is someone finding him buck naked in the good sheriff’s backyard. Running for his clothes and then back again seems as stupid as it is pointless. And he knows Scott’s out of town tonight, some family related thing with his mother, because the teen made sure to notify Derek that if anything’s to happen in his absence Derek’s the one to take care of it.

Derek is certain Scott meant something actually supernatural – considering the young Alpha’s options were him, Peter and that werecoyote girl, Malia – and not this, but then again Stiles was supposed to be at Derek’s loft in the first place.

He’s careful when circling the house, looking for a way in that’s not the front door. Above his head, Stiles’ windows is open and while Derek is fairly certain he would be able to make the jump – wolf body or not – that too is a sight he’d rather not make. Lady luck is on his side however, considering the small window of the basement has been left ajar and as he scurries to open it enough to squeeze through, Derek makes a small note of tearing Stiles a new one for making it so easy to break in for someone else (someone, something dangerous) that is not him.

Derek’s still too big to make it in without any effort and the dirty glass breaks as he forces his body through the small, if wide open window. A shard of glass embeds itself in the back of his neck, makes it painful for him to move too much and there is no way for him to pull it out right now. The basement smells strongly of laundry detergent and dust, the smell causing his nose to twitch ever so as he clumsily climbs up the stairs. Pawing the handle open is another feat all on its own, the glass digging deeper into the muscle and causing blood to clog the fur.

Once he’s in the dimly lit hall – the only light is coming from the kitchen, where Stiles’ hitching breaths are growing louder – Derek takes a few deep breaths to collect himself. His paws make no sound on the worn out carpet and in a matter of seconds he’s peeking into the kitchen.

Stiles is curled up on the floor by the sink, hands balled and pressed to his eyes, his shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping himself in check (and failing terribly so). He smells of tears and sweat and for a second there Derek wonders how long has he been in this state, before hunching his legs a bit, lowering his head and slowly walking into the kitchen.

The click of his claws on tile goes unnoticed, Stiles lost too deep inside of his own mind, so Derek lets out a small woof, loud enough for the teen to look up.

Stiles looks absolutely wrecked.

His eyes are glazed and red rimmed, rubbed raw. His lips are bitten bloody, there’s an ugly flush on his cheeks and his whole body is wracked with shivers.

He stares at Derek standing there in the doorframe with wild eyes, fingers clutching the worn out cotton of his sweats so hard that the knuckles have turned white.

“Wh-what…?” He croaks out, voice rough and raspy, as Derek takes a few hesitant steps forward, unsure of how his presence in this form will be welcomed. Stiles scrambles back, pushes himself flat against the cupboard at this back and his breath becomes even quicker. “No, no… s-stay.”

The whine that Derek gives is pitiful, hurt; he doesn’t want to make this worse, he wants to help. The glass causes him pain and muddles with his mind a bit, but Stiles is looking at him all terrified and there has to be a way to let him now, there has to be something he can…

Derek lowers his head even more, flinches at the stab of pain but still hunches his back and allows his eyes to glow. 

Stiles’ next breath catches in his throat and his hands fall to the floor all of the sudden, like he’s unable to keep holding them up anymore. He starts to choke when he forgets to draw breath for a second to longer, coughs till tears escape the corners of his eyes and still Derek doesn’t move from his spot between Stiles and the door.

“There are no wolves in California.” Stiles manages to say finally, still out of breath and with chest heaving, but there is something else creeping into his voice alongside absolute panic. “There are no _wolves_ in California. But there are .. there are werewolves. Werewolves. D-Derek…?”

Derek huffs in agreement, takes a careful step towards the teen. Stiles’ fingers twitch forward on the floor and Derek takes that a sign to come even closer. When he carefully  sits down next to him, he’s just a little bigger, not enough to tower over Stiles when he’s at his most vulnerable but to be a steady, maybe just the slightest bit intimidating, presence.

“Derek.” Stiles says again, this time his voice cracking with awe as he reaches a hesitant hand towards Derek’s muzzle and stops just inches away.

There’s a thick layer of fear smeared all over his skin and Derek nudges the hand with the tip of his cold nose, causes Stiles to brush his fingers along the thick fur that covers one eye-ridge. It’s a shy move at first, accompanied by Stiles sucking in a long, long breath, but then that hand is back again, this time the touch a little firmer. He digs his fingers deep into the fur  at Derek’s throat,  threads them through the dark pelt over and over. 

“Oh, holy shit.” Stiles’ voice is all raw amazement, strangely breathy in the quiet house but as his fingers don’t stop skimming carefully over Derek’s head, his heart is slowing down from its frantic pace. “ _Dude_.”

And Derek just sits there, lets himself be petted all over as Stiles’ hands grow surer with the passage of time. The sour remains of the panic attack are still there in his scent, but they give way to something way brighter with each passing second as Stiles keeps brushing the fur back.

This isn’t exactly what Derek wanted to help Stiles with, but the one thing he has learned in the last months is to go with the flow of things.

“You’re so big,” Stiles murmurs at some point, the outer corners of his eyes dropping ever so, his shoulders sloping easily. Derek has no way of saying how much time has passed, only that’s it’s been quite a while considering all four of his legs are starting to go numb. “Can’t believe Scott never told me you guys could do this.”  

Derek snorts at that and Stiles’ eyes turn a little more awake. He grabs at Derek’s cheeks and makes the wolf look at him, like Derek isn’t capable of biting his hands off anyway. Then again, Stiles has no self-preservation instinct to speak of, considering how his circle of friends consist of all supernatural beings.  

“He… Can Scott do this?”

Derek sighs heavily, hopes he can convey enough fake annoyance through his eyes only and shakes his head no. His neck is hurting, trying to heal and getting cut open all over again. There is no way he can hold a longer conversation like this, not if Stiles starts asking question after question (and he will, Derek knows he will, he’s Stiles after all).

For now though, Stiles looks at him with awe and honest to God delight, mouth slightly open and hands busy stroking everywhere they can reach. His fingers catch on the shard of glass and Derek jerks involuntarily, ducks his head as a bright flare of pain shoot up and down his spine.

“Oh God, what did I …” Stiles scrambles to his knees, twisting over Derek’s body to see. “Shit, you big idiot, Jesus Christ, why is it always you and me and blood. At least this time, you’re not threatening to maim me or anything, oh crap, I have to pull this out, don’t I?  Still, please don’t bite me?”

As far as Derek’s concerned, idiotic ramble is a good sign, so he just clenches his jaws as Stiles prods and pokes around the shard, unable to catch the bloodied glass properly. It takes a few futile attempts on Stiles’ part to get a grip secure enough, a lot of disgusted calling of every possible deity in existence and a few pleas not to hurt him, but finally Stiles manages to pull the glass out without inflicting more damage to either Derek or himself. He throws it into the sink with disgust and zeroes in on the wound again, his touch more gentle than needed as the wound finally closes up properly.

Derek sighs with relief and stretches out a little, huffs when Stiles sinks back to his knees and once again buries his fingers in the thick fur. “I really hate you sometimes,” he says finally in a voice soft enough to make the insult sound almost fond.

It feels alarmingly _good_ ,the careful way Stiles’ pets him.

And it takes everything not to just lean into the fluttering touches. Derek’s not sure when was the last time he was the center of someone’s attention in a way that had a real chance of not ending in bloodshed.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Stiles asks after a long, long while. He smells mostly exhausted now, his moves languid and slow and Derek’s best guess is he’ll drop off soon. They should get Stiles up to his bedroom soon , one way or other, and Derek has to come up with a way how to do that.

He can’t exactly drag the teen by the scruff of his neck (tempting as it is), superior werewolf strength or not. So he butts his head lightly against Stiles’ shoulder  then looks at the door leading to the hallway, trots a few time in place and hopes the teen gets it. 

“You want me to go there?” Stiles says, just the slightest bit hesitant, as if there could be something dangerous outside of the brightly lit kitchen. As if there could be something worse than Derek inside the house.

He still nods as best as his wolf body allows him, and butts his shoulder again, impatient. Stiles scrambles to his feet, sways a bit – it makes Derek wonder how long Stiles has been sitting on the floor - and still he keeps one hand on Derek’s nape.

The way upstairs takes much longer than Derek thought it would be, with lots of pushing and pulling the hem of Stiles’ shirt, because Stiles would apparently rather spend his time poking and prodding curiously at the wolf than going to bed. Even when Derek growls low in the back of his throat and pushes Stiles onto the bedding, the teen grabs at the fur behind his ears and looks up at him, eyes blown wide and heart speeding up.

“No. No.” He says, frantic and terrified all over again, “You can’t.”

It hurts, the way Stiles is holding on and a short, pitiful whine escapes him. The reaction is immediate as Stiles jerks back, crawls backwards on the bed and twists his fingers into the sheets. His breath hitches, scent goes oddly sour as he ducks his head.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles breaths out finally. “I’m … I know you got other things.”

Derek tilts his head to the side, confused at the sudden change. While Stiles didn’t seem exactly one hundred percent fine when he came down from his panic attack, he was calm at least. Smelled alright, more or less, and tired and sleepy.  

Now he’s anything but, and oddly, the most prominent note Derek  can smell is guilt.

“You can go.” Stiles says quietly, still not looking up. “I’ll..I’ll be fine. You obviously… have things to worry about more. You don’t have to babysit me because Scott asked you to.”

This doesn’t make sense. _Stiles_ doesn’t make sense. And Derek _still_ is unable to shift, because while he may be inside now, still he would be flashing his everything at Stiles and that well. But Stiles acting even weirder than his usual level of weird and Derek did not go thought all of this just to leave him alone right now.

He butts Stiles’ head a little just for good measure, huff and jumps off the bed. He shuffles around the room, looking for a pair of sweat and a shirt (or just sweats, wouldn’t be the first time he‘d be shirtless around the teen). He finds a pair pushed far underneath the bed bravely faces the onslaught of smells wafting from there – and he’s being generous with the word – to pull them out. He drags them into the hall, ignoring Stiles’ spluttered protests and shifts back almost effortlessly.

His joints crack a little as he pulls on the sweats and he goes back into Stiles’ room, catching him half way off the bed. He coughs a little, causing Stiles to wipe his head in his direction. His eyes widen a little bit, mouth opens and closes a few times.

“What other things?” Derek asks, voice the tiniest bit raspy, before Stiles manages to find his voice again. His fingers itch, it’s almost like a tingling, so he helps himself to Stiles’ drawer.

He lost some of the Alpha bulk in the same time that Stiles grew into himself a little, his shirt no longer skin tight on Derek’s body. Still it feels strange, willingly wrapping himself in a scent of someone else. He sits on the chair by the desk, a good few steps of space between them and leans forward a bit, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Wh-what?” Stiles is still looking at him with wide eyes, his fingers still clutching at the sheets.

“What _other things_ do I worry about?”

He’s pretty sure Stiles stops breathing for a while. He lowers his head, lets the longer plies of his hair fall into his eyes and hide them from Derek’s gaze. His scent is emotion layered over emotion, suddenly so complex Derek isn’t even willing to try and decipher them all.

Mostly, Stiles smells miserable.

“You’re an idiot.” Derek says after a long, long silence, when it became clear that Stiles isn’t going to talk.

“Thanks.” There’s a hint of a well known sarcasm in the muttered reply and Derek’s filled with a familiar urge to knock Stiles’ head against the wall a few times for good measure.

“I told you Scott couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want.”

“Right.” Stiles nods, still not looking up before continuing. “That doesn’t mean you’re willingly putting up with me. It’s ok. I get it.”

“No.” Derek sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t think you do. No one is _putting up_ with you…”

“Don’t, ok?” Stiles snaps, jerking his head up. His eyes are bright and there’s a definite set to his jaw. “I can handle… I will handle this. Just don’t fucking lie to me. I don’t need your lies, or, or your pity or…”

There is no chance for Derek to stop the snarl that escapes his mouth. Truth be told, he doesn’t even try to. But Derek spend _days_ ripping his own body apart because he wanted to help. Because he wants to help Stiles, he does, and he thought he knew how but they’re back to the start and all the patience Derek had just sizzles away, gives room to bubbling anger.

He’s in front of Stiles in a blink of an eye, one hand curled in his t-shirt and giving the teen a little shake.

“You think you know me so well, Stiles.” He growls a little, frustrated because Stiles is goddamn stubborn and stupid. “When what you know is shit. You want to believe everyone’s pitying you? When the only who does is you? Fine, go ahead. But do _not_ accuse me of lying.”

And maybe Derek shouldn’t have released Stiles as abruptly as he did, sending the teen sprawling back onto his bed with a startled yelp. He feels his eyes flash, his wolf agitated when just five minutes ago it was content and almost hopeful, when he turns away and walks out the bedroom.

Ripping the t-shirt off seems a little over the top, so Derek just throws it behind himself as he storms down the stairs. The sweats follow and even if he hears Stiles call his name, hears the teen scramble in his bedroom, he’s already back on four paws and the front door open.

By the time he knows Stiles stands on the porch – thinks he head Stiles yell for him one last time -  Derek’s long gone from the street, taking long, powerful leaps in the shadows. He runs almost blindly, fueled by a sudden wave of hot anger.       

Only when he’s deep in the Preserve, legs shaking and lungs burning with exertion, he howls.  

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before was a disaster; and Derek waits for whatever's the outcome of it all. (He doesn't think Stiles will come just yet.)

Derek’s not naive to think that the events from the previous night will go unnoticed and sure enough, Lydia’s already waiting for him the next day when he comes home. She’s pacing in front of his door, a flurry of flaming red hair and killer high heels, fierce and demanding and for a second there, Derek cannot do but grudgingly respect the girl. She’s literally walking back and forth in front of a wolf’s den and the only thing he can sense is fierce determination. He still takes his time fishing for the keys, makes a show of putting all of the grocery bags away and unpacking them – he feel Lydia’s eyes on him the whole time and he can swear she’s judging his purchases – before he turns to his visitor and raises one brow in a silent question.

Lydia simply trots around the loft for a moment, scoffs in disapproval at the dirty windows and the fine layer of dust lingering here and there, before taking a seat on the table in a completely natural, perfectly graceful pose. The cold light from the outside catches in her hair sharpens her features, and yes, Derek can easily understand why Stiles was so hell-bent on the idea of loving her for years. 

If he were seventeen, he’d put her on a glass pedestal as well. 

“Are you actually going to say something or should I take a guess as to why you are here?” Derek asks finally, because that’s what she’s expecting; he can indulge her for a bit.  He sits down on one of the stairs and leaning forward a bit, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Funny, I never pegged you as a fresh market shopper,” the shrug of one shoulder is casually nonchalant,  practiced to cool perfection and if Derek didn’t know better by now, he would buy her _not interested_ act in a blink of an eye. As it is, he does know her well enough not to even comment on her casual remark. “And I want to know what you did to Stiles. Scott said he smelled furious today.”

And that is something Derek should have expected. Scott called him first thing in the morning, somehow torn between snarling and freaking out, because _what the fuck was that Derek, I woke up shaking, what the hell did you do?_ That was an interesting conversation to have before eight o’clock in the morning and Derek’s sure Scott will drop by before the sun manages to set

Anyway… 

“And this brings you to me _why_?”

“Oh _please_.” She says when she turns her attention to her manicured nails, her lips pursed and jaw set tight. “I’m not stupid Derek, only you can rile Stiles that much.”

Derek really wishes that wouldn’t be true. But everyone in their little, weird, supernatural circle of knows that Derek and Stiles drive each other up the wall like no one else. It’s their unspoken thing. Saving their lives and getting under their skin. 

“Even if, what’s it to you?”

Stiles called him an absolute asshole more than once over passage of time and Derek is the last to disagree, as he enjoys behaving like one every now and then.

Lydia ,however, looks absolutely murderous, eyes burning and lips a wicked line of red as she slides of the table, straightens her dainty shoulders and walks up to him. She acts like he couldn’t snap her neck with one move. 

She pokes the middle of his chest almost painfully hard, righteous fury a good scent on her skin as her nail digs into his skin through the threadbare shirt.

“No,” Lydia hisses through clenched teeth, “No. You don’t get to do _that_. You don’t get to fuck with Stiles when’s he’s…when he’s this much not okay. I don’t care what you think you’re doing, Stiles deserves better than whatever sick game you’re playing. And you, you are not his…” 

Something snaps inside of him, something vicious and dangerous and he’s off the stair’s in a blink of an eye. Derek’s snarl cuts her off, his eyes flashing bright as when he gets all up in Lydia’s face because enough is enough; and the girl just looks up at him, a stubborn set to her jaw even if her scent spikes with fear for a second.

Good.

“I’m not his _what?_ ” Derek asks through clenched teeth, the words sharp and vicious as he looms over Lydia’s much, much smaller frame. “I’m not his _friend_? And you get to decide that why, exactly? Because I’m not handling him in mittens? Not treating Stiles like he’s fucking broken? If that little phrase of yours means coddling him, then yeah, you’re right. _I’m not._ ”

An angry flush rises on Lydia’s cheeks - makes her eyes seem wild - and her breathing quickens. Derek sees her clenching and clenching her hands to the point where the slender knuckles turn white and he should be the bigger person here, he should act like an adult and stop goading her.

But there has been an unusual kind of anger simmering right underneath Derek’s skin ever since he got home in the middle of the night, and while Lydia’s hardly at fault,  he grabs the opportunity to let it all bleed out. 

“And you think you’re doing good by him?” His voice turns cold, as he chooses words intentionally  so they cut as well as his claws could as he takes a step, enjoys the way Lydia jerks backwards. “You think that walking on eggshells is doing anything for Stiles? That coddling him help him deal with anything that has happened? Are you his friend, by petting his back and doing _nothing?”_

The slap barely stings, even if Lydia surely put all of her strength into it. The sound of it echoes in the suddenly quiet flat, one dainty hand still raised as Lydia’s chin trembles just the tiniest bit. 

Her hand burns bright red as she cradles it to her chest.

“You … you are unbelievable.” She’s seething, her whole body coiled tight as if she’s barely holding herself back from lounging forward one more time. She may be a banshee, not yet in the prime of her power, but he’s a born wolf and the girl _knows_ she has no advantage here.  Anger and hurt roll off her in heavy, hurried waves and this, this is something Derek’s familiar with. “You have _no right_.”

Derek only bares his teeth in yet another snarl - and still keeps them human - and the way Lydia storms out is oddly satisfying. 

* * *

“In one day, you managed to piss of Stiles and get Lydia out for your blood.” Scott sits down heavily and rubs a hand over his face, a gesture too old for someone as young as him. “I  seriously don’t know if I should feel terrified or amazed,dude, you got some real skill.”

Just like Derek suspected, the young Alpha came around in the late afternoon, bag thrown over shoulder and grass stains over his elbows. Scott looks tired, a little worn down and Derek immediately feels guilty for adding more onto his shoulders. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” the teen says after a short while, slouching in the arm chair as if all air got pumped out of him. 

“I know,” Derek nods solemnly, because he does know, he’s been there, with the power of  an alpha a steady rush in his veins and a constant thrum in his head. And he jumped into it, allowed it to carry him and guide his actions. He made mistakes he doesn’t want Scott to replay. “You’ll get better at it.”

Scott looks at him from beneath half-closed lids, stays silent for a moment longer before sighing heavily and stretching out. “So… what wasn’t that? The night thing?”

Derek feels a grimace twist his lips and he looks away, fingers twined tightly together. The angry, frustrated howl was not one of his proudest moments (he considers himself lucky that  Peter hasn’t slinked in yet, all smirks and knowing eyes and biting comments) and he’s not too keen on making himself look like a hot-headed fool in front of Scott.

“Just… venting.” 

Scott’s face does that awful thing where it’s caught somewhere between pleading and disappointed, eyes dark and mouth a grim line. “ _Dude._ ”

The silence between them stretches, for some long, uncomfortable minutes before Scott sighs, gives in; he always does, that’s what makes him so good, Derek thinks. 

“So… you’re right, you know? I guess we are coddling Stiles.” He says quietly and Derek sighs, because _of course_ Lydia told him everything. 

In the long run, they all got the same goal, after all. 

“You’ve seen him,Derek.” Scott continues, tired and worn out like no seventeen year old has the right to be, rubs lightly at his stomach - an absentminded gesture if Derek ever saw one - where there is no sign of a scar, no physical reminder of a sword that ran him through. “How can I force him to talk? How can we demand of him to sit down and relive… everything. And today he was so angry I just…” he shrugs, a little bit helplessly, “It’s the most emotion he has showed in _weeks_.”

“And that’s what you want me to do.” Derek stops him from saying more, suddenly knowing, the realisation sharp and clear like a puncture wound. The words feel thick, ashen on his tongue. “You don’t want me to look after him. You want me to break him.” 

Scott has the courtesy to blush a little, picks at the cuticle of one thumb. He smells miserable, maybe even more so than at the funeral, and sad and embarrassed, yet he keeps his eyes averted.

It’s all the confirmation really Derek needs.

““Because I’m not his friend.”. Derek continues quietly and somehow his words ring loud in the silent loft and must sound harsh because Scott flinches back a bit involuntarily, before he catches himself and straightens his back.

“I don’t know what you guys are, Derek.” He says and he’s trying so hard to keep red away from bleeding into his eyes. Because he’s saying this as a teenage boy, as a worried friend and not as an Alpha to another wolf. “I don’t know if you’re friends, or not, or if you’re some sort of twisted allies that team up because of me. But I know that you and Stiles are always telling each other the truth, even when the you don’t want to hear it. It’s what you guys do.”

Derek would love to disagree, Scott’s right (Scott’s always right when kit comes to Stiles). Because like that night in the hospital, with Kate’s name unformed by Stiles’ mouth but still clear in his words, they just don’t _lie_ to each other.

No matter how it hurts.

“It has to count for something. You can’t tell me otherwise, because it just _has to._ ” Scott adds over a rushed breath, “And yeah, maybe I’m coddling him right now. Maybe I’m just sitting there, petting his shoulders, waiting for the fallout. But I’m his best friend, man, and that’s what I do.”

 _I need you to break him,_ Derek hears _._

 _I can’t tear through all those walls like you could,_ is left unsaid and yet perfectly clear. 

“Alright.” Derek finds himself nodding, maybe against all reason - and against that something in his heart, that aches at the thought of pushing, of poking at wounds that rot and fester - agreeing to what Scott’s saying. “Alright.”

He looks Scott straight in the eyes; the teen’s are dark and pained, but he’s so, so sure of what he’s asking Derek. There’s a determined set to his jaw and he’s serious when he just nods his head slowly.

“Thanks.” Scott says after a longer while, keeps his voice soften than before. “I know I’m asking a lot from you.”

Derek grimaces and looks away, out through the dirty windows, onto the greying sky. Chooses not to reply; chooses not to acknowledge what they both know.

 _You may not be friends, but I know you’ll still end up hurt for him,_ Scott doesn’t say (doesn’t need to). 

It would hardly be the first time.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [tumblr](the-kitteh.tumblr.com)


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